faces, four white with shock and the bearded one flushing red, whipped around. The speaker stood outside the open window, elbows resting on the ledge, chin in his hands. He eyed them with a mild scrutiny, his face shadowed by the wood of the window-frame.
‘I have never yet,’ he said, ‘known gallant phrases from however august a lineage to succeed in ousting a tyrant. In the Palm or anywhere else.’ With an economical motion he hoisted himself upwards, swung his feet into the room and sat comfortably perched on the ledge. ‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘agreeing on a cause does make a starting-point, I will concede that much.’
‘You are the sixth of whom my father spoke?’ Tomasso asked warily.
The man did look familiar now that he was in the light. He was dressed for the forest not the city, in two shades of grey with a black sheepskin vest over his shirt, and breeches tucked into worn black riding boots. There was a knife at his belt, without ornament.
‘I heard you mention that,’ the fellow said. ‘I actually hope I’m not, because if I am the implications are unsettling, to say the least. The fact is, I never spoke to your father in my life. If he knew of my activities and somehow expected me to find out about this meeting and be here … well, I would be somewhat flattered by his confidence but rather more disturbed that he would have known so much about me. On the other hand,’ he said for a second time, ‘it is Sandre d’Astibar we’re talking about, and I do seem to makesix here, don’t I?’ He bowed, without any visible irony, towards the bier on its trestles.
‘You are, then, also in league against Alberico?’ Nievole’s eyes were watchful.
‘I am not,’ said the man in the window quite bluntly. ‘Alberico means nothing to me. Except as a tool. A wedge to open a door of my own.’
‘And what is it lies behind that door?’ Scalvaia asked from deep in his armchair.
But in that moment Tomasso remembered.
‘I know you!’ he said abruptly. ‘I saw you this morning. You are the Tregean shepherd who played the pipes in the mourning rites!’ Taeri snapped his fingers as the recognition came home to him as well.
‘I played the pipes, yes,’ the man on the window-ledge said, quite unruffled. ‘But I am not a shepherd nor from Tregea. It has suited my purposes to play a role, many different roles, in fact, for a great many years. Tomasso bar Sandre ought to appreciate that.’ He grinned.
Tomasso did not return the smile. ‘Perhaps then, under the circumstances, you might favour us by saying who you really are.’ He said it as politely as the situation seemed to warrant. ‘My father might have known but we do not.’
‘Nor, I’m afraid, shall you learn just yet,’ the other said. He paused. ‘Though I will say that were I to swear a vow of my own on the honour of my family it would carry a weight that would eclipse both such oaths sworn here tonight.’
It was matter-of-factly said, which made the arrogance greater, not less.
To forestall Nievole’s predictable burst of anger Tomasso said quickly, ‘You will not deny us some information surely, even if you choose to shield your name. You said Alberico is a tool for you. A tool for what, Alessan not-of-Tregea?’ He was pleased to find that he remembered the name Menico diFerraut had mentioned yesterday. ‘What is your own purpose? What brings you to this lodge?’
The other’s face, lean and curiously hollowed with cheekbones in sharp relief, grew still, almost masklike. And into the waiting silence that ensued he said:
‘I want Brandin. I want Brandin of Ygrath dead more than I want my soul’s immortality beyond the last portal of Morian.’
There was a silence again, broken only by the crackle of the autumn fires on the two hearths. It seemed to Tomasso as if the chill of winter had come into the room with that speech.
Then: ‘Such terribly splendid words!’ murmured Scalvaia lazily, shattering the
‘I have never yet,’ he said, ‘known gallant phrases from however august a lineage to succeed in ousting a tyrant. In the Palm or anywhere else.’ With an economical motion he hoisted himself upwards, swung his feet into the room and sat comfortably perched on the ledge. ‘On the other hand,’ he added, ‘agreeing on a cause does make a starting-point, I will concede that much.’
‘You are the sixth of whom my father spoke?’ Tomasso asked warily.
The man did look familiar now that he was in the light. He was dressed for the forest not the city, in two shades of grey with a black sheepskin vest over his shirt, and breeches tucked into worn black riding boots. There was a knife at his belt, without ornament.
‘I heard you mention that,’ the fellow said. ‘I actually hope I’m not, because if I am the implications are unsettling, to say the least. The fact is, I never spoke to your father in my life. If he knew of my activities and somehow expected me to find out about this meeting and be here … well, I would be somewhat flattered by his confidence but rather more disturbed that he would have known so much about me. On the other hand,’ he said for a second time, ‘it is Sandre d’Astibar we’re talking about, and I do seem to makesix here, don’t I?’ He bowed, without any visible irony, towards the bier on its trestles.
‘You are, then, also in league against Alberico?’ Nievole’s eyes were watchful.
‘I am not,’ said the man in the window quite bluntly. ‘Alberico means nothing to me. Except as a tool. A wedge to open a door of my own.’
‘And what is it lies behind that door?’ Scalvaia asked from deep in his armchair.
But in that moment Tomasso remembered.
‘I know you!’ he said abruptly. ‘I saw you this morning. You are the Tregean shepherd who played the pipes in the mourning rites!’ Taeri snapped his fingers as the recognition came home to him as well.
‘I played the pipes, yes,’ the man on the window-ledge said, quite unruffled. ‘But I am not a shepherd nor from Tregea. It has suited my purposes to play a role, many different roles, in fact, for a great many years. Tomasso bar Sandre ought to appreciate that.’ He grinned.
Tomasso did not return the smile. ‘Perhaps then, under the circumstances, you might favour us by saying who you really are.’ He said it as politely as the situation seemed to warrant. ‘My father might have known but we do not.’
‘Nor, I’m afraid, shall you learn just yet,’ the other said. He paused. ‘Though I will say that were I to swear a vow of my own on the honour of my family it would carry a weight that would eclipse both such oaths sworn here tonight.’
It was matter-of-factly said, which made the arrogance greater, not less.
To forestall Nievole’s predictable burst of anger Tomasso said quickly, ‘You will not deny us some information surely, even if you choose to shield your name. You said Alberico is a tool for you. A tool for what, Alessan not-of-Tregea?’ He was pleased to find that he remembered the name Menico diFerraut had mentioned yesterday. ‘What is your own purpose? What brings you to this lodge?’
The other’s face, lean and curiously hollowed with cheekbones in sharp relief, grew still, almost masklike. And into the waiting silence that ensued he said:
‘I want Brandin. I want Brandin of Ygrath dead more than I want my soul’s immortality beyond the last portal of Morian.’
There was a silence again, broken only by the crackle of the autumn fires on the two hearths. It seemed to Tomasso as if the chill of winter had come into the room with that speech.
Then: ‘Such terribly splendid words!’ murmured Scalvaia lazily, shattering the
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